Mischief
by SkullszEyes
Summary: Loki has fun with some deserted soldiers.


They were traitors, doomed to die. An order from his father, a game he would enjoy himself, and he did not hesitate to walk from the room, away from his family, to do what must be done. There was a lot going through his mind, so many things he wanted to do, and this was his opportunity.

It was some time since he was able to truly become something more, to be himself. He was always on a leash, trying to make his family happy, to stay in line. Except this was where his expertise came into play.

He wanted this, and it exhilarated him. It has been too long.

He found them without any trouble, and he didn't walk in himself, he had changed into a young woman, beautiful in shape and form, vulnerability in her eyes, her skin smooth and light, her hair long and flowing. He knew what people wanted, mostly men, their minds and thoughts were too easily distinguished, he didn't even have to guess.

There were many of them surrounded by rock, standing under the bright blue sky and its puffy clouds. The warm wind was nice on his skin, and it only added to his excitement. He wanted a place where what he was thinking would be dramatic yet private. The ground was flat with cracks of grass coming through, and the fire they had made wafted into his nose.

They didn't notice him right away, but his presence was too obvious and soon their gazes fell on him. He could feel what they felt, the desire wringing them dry, tainting the air itself. He relaxed into the feeling, his body languid, moving slowly on bare feet with a tight orange dress made of silk, his shoulders were partially bare, the front of the dress dipped and showed the curve of his breasts.

He smiled as he came to a stop and looked at each one of them as they began to turn toward him. Some of them looked curious, while others were cautious of who he was and why he was there.

Except their desire was too plainly obvious. He could taste it on his tongue, swallow the yearning itself, and it made him tingly, his fingers slowly moving in and out.

"Why are you here?" one of the men asked, broad shouldered with a heavy beard, his eyes were stoic, and his voice was deep. He stepped away from the others and had a long thick blade in his hand.

"I am here," he began, his voice smooth and light, not betraying the true consequence of his manipulation, "in behalf of Odin."

Their curiosity soon faded into hostility and most held their blades, but their eyes kept going to his body, moving across the curves and supple flesh he had formed. They were easily cupped in his hands, their minds so tantalizing, breakable, he could only squeeze and shatter it completely. Except he enjoyed the luxury of suspense when dealing with men who had no idea who they were up against.

"Someone like _you_ ," a younger man of the group, handsome in form with tan skin, and notable muscle, his brows pinched together, curious yet confused, "work for Odin himself?"

"He enjoys the presence of competent people," he said, his smile still on his lips.

"And yet," the older man spoke, staring at him with suspicion, "a competent woman like yourself came alone and with no weapon."

"I have other ways to destroy my enemies," he said.

"And what it is that?" another man to the far left asked, he had his head tilted to the side, older yet thin, his gaze moving along his body, desire tasted heavily in his direction, "are you going to spread your legs for us, let us use you for what you're meant for?"

A small laugh left his lips, fingers curling at his sides. "It would be the only reason why I've come here to ask you to return to Odin, beg for his forgiveness and earn your punishment."

The men laughed, the desire spiked, but there was something deadly in the air, the way they squeezed the handle of their blades, and some of them licked their lips.

"And you'll be our requisition?" the same thin man asked. "Never thought Odin was so generous."

"He's not," he told them, "my own skills tell me you want exactly what I've given you, but I can also give you something else, something you don't want, something you detest, what you fear." His form began to sink away, skin turning sallow, spots and stretched skin, hair that was once full began to thin, and the dress itself no longer hung on curves but bone. His form was of an aged woman and the appearance seemed to shock the men, a few backed away, some blinked with confusion at what they just witnessed.

A few realized what they were looking at and maybe that's what he wanted. They needed to know who they were looking at, who they were dealing with exactly.

His smile grew sharp, "Am I not to your liking? I'm sure some of you enjoy this form, the taste of age in the sockets of dying flesh. Maybe something more, something a bit familiar will ease your fear." His form changed again, this time not of a woman, but a man, young with dark hair and visible muscle, the clothes were of a simple tunic and pants, but no shoes. He made the form handsome, beautiful, and strong.

"Is this more to your liking?" he asked them, his voice deep and luxurious, "familiar, where you know where to touch."

"I know what you are!" one of the men proclaimed.

He raised his head, brow arched. "You know me?" he asked.

"You're Loki," the name shocked the others, stunning them into place, "God of Mischief."

He wrinkled his nose. "You know me? My own family doesn't know me," he walks closer to the soldiers, "my brother doesn't know me, yet _you_ know me."

The blades appeared in his hands and he felt the desire and fear mingle around him, a lust fueling his rage and excitement, it raced inside his heart and filled his veins and lungs. He did not wait for them to strike, he soaked the ground with their blood and disobedience. His blades sang in the air along with their horrendous tortured screams.

It has been a long time since he was able to feel such a high to the death of others. That his own father allowed him to strike, to leave the collar of his leash behind, to do what he has been trained to do. It breathes inside of him, a tangling wrath of pleasure and pain in his bones.

They all lie on the ground, bodies not twitching with a sliver of life. He's covered in their blood, all the way to his bare feet that steps into the puddles that he created. He walks toward the last of the soldiers, and he kneels down, he sees into the soldiers mind and his form begins to take on the appearance of a young girl which in turn, horrifies the man.

"Get out of my head," he whispered, shaking on the ground, slices of his flesh bleeding out, his voice shakes, he drops the handle of his blade as his eyes widen at the form of his daughter in front of him.

"Father," he said, the voice of a young girl leaving his lips, "why didn't you come home?" he smiled at the man, "why didn't you save me?"

The man shakes his head, and then he screams. "Get out of my fucking head!"

He grins maliciously and the face of the girl burns away, he leans forward and the knife is shoved into the man's chest where his heart is, knowing that the face of his daughter burning was the last thing on his mind before death dragged him under.

He stands slowly, his appearance falling away into a young man with black hair and pale skin, his usual appearance that the soldiers only knew was the son of Odin, the brother to Thor, the prince of Asgard.

He turns, ready to leave the area, and the pack of dead bodies, but as he looks up, he stops to see at the mouth of the area stands his brother.

Blonde hair trailed along his shoulders, wearing his usual red and black armour and his hammer is held idly in his hand. His brows are pinched as they stare directly at him, a displeasure on his face that is too common.

"Loki."

He smiles broadly. "Brother, I said I would handle it."

"Did you have to do it in that way?"

"A quick death," he says, walking toward Thor, feet drenched in the puddles of blood, "is no fun."

"No games, Loki."

He stops in front of Thor, looking up at him with a smile, his daggers in his hands, and he says, "No games."

He walks past Thor with the smile still on his lips.


End file.
